Change of Key
by AgeOfEdward
Summary: After the end of WWII, two soldiers embark on a cross county journey to find what else they can do with their lives besides spy, fly and kill.


**Title of Story: Change of Key**

**Word Count: 4074**

**Type of Edward: WWII Militaryward**

**Category: Young Adult**

**Story Summary: After the end of WWII, two soldiers embark on a cross county journey to find what else they can do with their lives besides spy, fly and kill**

**Standard Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. No copyright infringement is intended.**

After the end of WWII, two soldiers embark on a cross county journey to find what else they can do with their lives besides spy, fly, and kill.

The doctor was not unkind but resolute. There was little else to be said, and the patient had done well in rehabilitation training. He could button a shirt, tie shoes, eat with utensils, and drink from a handled cup. He could sign his name, and he was educated. It was time to discharge him.

Edward stared at the papers that he needed to sign. With some difficulty, he made what now passed as his signature, the elegant loops from hours of practice in Miss Winterblom's classes long gone. Lost. He couldn't quickly or easily collect the pages together, so the unsmiling nurse tidied them into the folder. He took his carbons in an envelope and walked back to his room. Major was waiting for him; he'd completed his exit meeting an hour earlier and was now ready, their two bags complete with the handles poised and ready. It was time.

The trains were still full of uniforms, rank giving them the options of seats, but nerves meant neither was in a rush to settle in. In Philly, the Major convinced the Captain to spend the night, see the Liberty Bell.

"Cap'n, it's one of the things we went down swinging for. I druther to see it now ah ways."

His soft southern accent, hardly changed by the fact he'd not been in the south in over ten years still charmed the ladies. He'd gotten them a table at a little diner across the street from their hotel, near the train station. He was pondering his timetable, so he missed the Major coming in and heading for the counter, rather than seeing him at the table. He placed his chin on his hand, relishing the sensation of stubble returning to his fingers as he watched his best friend fall for the petite brunette seated at the counter.

Alice had been waitressing and was just picking up her last pay that afternoon. One look at the bleary, hazel eyes and sweet smile, and she was certain. It was a done deal that the trail led away from this town. Now she had a partner in crime. The war might be over, but the lesson that life was short and might be cruelly cut even further wasn't lost on her. Look at Judy Garland in "The Clock." Life was now, time was a' wasting, and there was nothing holding her or her shiny new secretarial degree to this coast.

There was an extra ticket to be booked on the Broadway Limited to Chicago. This time the Captain had the errand.

The offices of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra were sedate and quiet after the hustle and bustle of Union Station and the streets near Lake Michigan. Alice and the Major decided to let the Captain attend to his business, and they scurried off to Marshall Field's.

"Edward Masen." The motherly voice of Dara Cope, secretary and probably the glue that kept all the artistic types in line and symphony doyennes placated, welcomed him into the music director's office with a warmth he'd not felt in years.

He studied a photograph that sat on the ornate marble mantle over the gilded radiator. It was from his first Chicago concert. From it his parents beamed as he sat at the Steinway in the main . The Frederic Stock, he'd known as his godfather and the rest of the world revered posed with his arm around his teenage self. So many possibilities then. The entire room made him think of the suite in London his parents had leased so he'd have a home base while he was on tour on the continent.

He'd been told he was lucky that he wasn't home the night the bombs hit London. Lucky? His parents, gone in a flash. What luck was in that? In a way, Edward Masen was set on his own road to destruction that night His other mentor, Frederic, was also gone. Rodzinski was the musical director now; they'd met a few times over the years. He'd heard one of his recitals at Jacob's when Hans Lang had brought him out to review some of the talent in Bloomington.

His parents had nurtured his musical talent since he'd first learned from his mother on their upright in the parlor. Frederic was a neighbor and had heard the then four year old play. Music again filled his head as he stared at his hands.

"My boy. Serving your country. Your mama and papa would be so proud." Dara had always had a soft spot for the green-eyed lad who from the age of twelve had charmed the entire staff. "Hans will be glad you came in. Will you stay and join the fall seas...?"

The question died on her lips as Edward stiffly placed his hands on her desk and softly shook his head. She nodded at the open door behind her as Hans Lang came into view.

Lang shut the door, not noticing the tears leaking from the corner of Mrs. Cope's eyes. The war and victory had extracted a sacrifice from everyone.

Hans had a few ideas for Edward, and he left the office with a number for Matt Weinstock at the Daily News in Los Angeles. Watching him leave, Hans wanted to bang his head on his desk. At least Masen was a bright young man. Sunshine might do wonders.

Edward met the Major and Alice at Buckingham Fountain, the high jets caught in the strong lake breeze creating a cooling mist. Miss Alice sported a new hat and carried a green bag, as did the Major. They hailed a cab and splurged on a night and dinner at the Allerton Hotel on Michigan Avenue. Over dinner, the Captain learned that Alice had an aunt and uncle in California and had been saving and planning to head west. The Major had offered his protection on her journey.

The Captain knew that the southern charm had enticed a lot of ladies over the past few years but this was the first time he'd seen real light in his favorite pilot's eyes.

"Didn't you tell me there were folks hoping you'd join them on the West Coast?" He inquired lightly as they dined. The war had changed so many things, but some conventions still remained. Somehow the Major had gotten Miss Alice her own room.

Alice's father had died during the Depression, and she'd worked as a waitress at the same diner in which her mom had worked prior to her death at the start of the war. She'd literally packed what she had left into one suitcase the morning they met. It was like a story from the picture show, three friends on the road, going west on the rails.

They left Chicago on the Chief the next day. Los Angeles, the City of Angels, might just hold a miracle or two for these war-weary veterans and their new pal.

Seated at her desk, her boxy jacket over the back of her chair, Izzy was reading over the last letter from her friend in Philly. Her pops had been on the force there for years before heading west. Charlie had gotten a job with the FBI just before the war, and since her mother did the unthinkable and left with the milkman, he'd wanted sunshine for his L'il Tizzy Izzy. Izzy idolized her pops, and since she wasn't much for becoming a matron on the force, much less a secretary for the bureau, she'd taken a job as a copy girl in the bullpen of the Daily News.

The war had brought with it many opportunities, and she'd grabbed each one. Now she covered part of the crime beat, a rare feat for a woman, and she often got folks to spill. Weinstock claimed it was her big, brown eyes, but Izzy figured it had more to do with learning from her father. The bullpen was buzzing that afternoon; the assignments were being juggled, as Keith Garret had just eloped with their society editor Kate Beldon.

Jessica was smirking. She was Mr. Weinstock's new secretary, and Izzy didn't think she'd last till Christmas. That girl was a gossip, and while that might make some copy for the flash and trash rags, here they did true journalism. Izzy had started night classes at UCLA while she worked. Homemaking for her and her father was not her strong suit, and her dad had sprung for a housekeeper since they'd come to Los Angeles before the war. He'd bought a little bungalow in Silver Lake.

Izzy waltzed into Weinstock's office like she owned the place. Pops had told her to own the room, and the information would find her. Today, she needed a favor. Kate's sudden departure meant she'd have to cover a society event. One of the councilmen's daughters had completed her first year at Juilliard and was performing, with a reception to follow at the Ambassador. Izzy knew crime and a little tiny bit about politics. As for music, if it didn't come from a radio, it was Greek to her.

"Matt, seriously. Isn't there some college boy here who can cover this? I hear Tanya Cleaver is easy on the eyes."

"Miss Swan, the war is over. Don't you think a more lady-like beat ..?" He tried to look stern but failed miserably.

"Mr. Weinstock, do not say that. You know why you took a chance on me. I don't think I have a fluffy pink bone in my body. I'll do this to prove I can cover whatever you toss my way." She turned on her heel to leave as the editor called out.

"Doll - and you know I mean that in the nicest way - clean up for this. It's not a crime scene."

"Chief, I do own a dress or two. I'll put on some glad rags and make nice. Just watch me." Izzy muttered under her breath as she headed for the elevators. With a quick stop at home, she could just make it out over to Wilshire for the concert.

After escorting Alice to the home of her Aunt and Uncle McCarty in Glendale, the Captain and the Major headed to the Ambassador Hotel. As they approached the desk, Captain spied a placard in the archway leading toward the ballrooms. He noted the names of the students from Juilliard who would be performing and attending a reception that evening.

Deciding to share a room with the Major was a matter of necessity, or one of them would be trying to sleep in the lobby. That would be a neat trick as everything was bustling, uniforms and suits, at the desk, in the bar and filling the lobby. Sending their bags up with a bellman, the officers took their ease in the lounge.

Beer was still a treat after the long months in the hospital, and cold ones were especially nice. The English preferred their pints warm as bathwater mostly, and the taste was never truly acquired. A frosted mug made Edward's life much easier. Their eyes roamed over the late afternoon crowd, noting the cut of men's suits had changed over the years. The uniforms were the most familiar, but sooner than not, they'd need civvies to start new careers. While pondering the wisdom of a second beer before dinner, the captain watched a young lady stomp up to the bar.

Dressed in a form-fitting, royal blue number, the brunette looked put together till you noticed the oversize bag on her arm - and the shot of whiskey she just ordered. She hopped up on the bar stool like she was used to it - not dainty like the locals or sinewy and sultry like the females he'd been around overseas. It was fresh, sort of natural, and he was enjoying just watching her work the bartender, pumping him for information on the "shindig" tonight.

Somehow, he ended up next to her. He looked down at her fashionable curls.

"Darn, I knew I shoulda' worn a hat." She spoke straight ahead, not turning to see his face.

"And deprive this veteran of seeing your lovely hair?" Edward could hardly believe the words coming out of his own mouth. The large brown eyes he could only see as reflection in the mirror over the bar grew wide at his comment.

"Sorry Captain. I guess you are still practicing your observation skills. I assure you, you are not an enemy...yet." She stunned him by turning on her stool and looking right at him. Her eyes were vivid in their intensity.

"I like a girl who knows rank. How can I prove my loyalty?"

"Hmmm. I dunno. Can you pull a music major out of your pocket?"

Those words made the captain smile. Not a gotcha smile, or even a come-here-you-pretty-thing-and-keep-a-soldier-happ y smile. Edward had seen both of those, especially the latter on more than a few of the pilots, but this was real manna from heaven. "What did you ask me?" He spoke slowly as he placed his beer on the counter and slipped his hands behind his back.

"I asked if you know anything about music. Captain, what I really need tonight is help for my tin ear. Don't suppose you took even chorus as a tot?" She smirked just a bit as she emptied her glass.

"Chorus? No, no, not since I was much younger, but I did spend a few hours at the piano in conservatory." He tried not to look too smug, but a little smirk danced at the corner of his eyes. He could say a thing or two, even if he couldn't demonstrate any longer.

"Jimminy! Are you for real, Captain?"

"I kid you not. Before the war, I played a few times. I take it you need to understand the recital this evening?" This was a moment when he longed for his hands... "I'm Captain Masen, newly arrived in Los Angeles, at your service tonight, Miss..."

"Oh, shoot, I have no fancy manners. I'm Izzy Swan. I write for the Daily News; my byline is I. Swan. I'm more used to the crime beat than the society page, but I go where my editor points me." She finished with a tiny semi-salute.

"I'll have to look for it when I read the paper."

"Do. So can you really explain this music to me tonight?"

With a nod of his head, he assured her he could de-mystify things, and she slid her arm through the crook of his elbow. "Well, Captain, I do believe you have a date with a repertoire tonight."

Stopping only for a moment to let the Major know his whereabouts, the pair made their way across the lobby toward the grand ballroom. As they entered, it occurred to him that he had avoided music for the most part since waking up on the hospital ship. It was not that he shut himself off; he just maneuvered away from it. Now, the grand piano was present, and as they took seats toward the back of the ballroom, he felt his heart rate increase a bit, as if he were the one to perform.

He managed to slip a program into his hand and hang on to it. He closed his eyes for a moment and let a memory wash over him.

_It was Berlin, before the War. He was just showing off for some of his parents' friends. There was a new Steinway in the parlor, and he ran through some Chopin and then Bach and Beethoven. He'd closed the night with a waltz._

_He'd been so young and maybe even a little arrogant then..._

As the first notes washed over the audience, Edward struggled not to fall into a negative frame of mind. The memories of how he'd performed, what he'd done... He fought them off, good and bad memories alike, in order to fulfill his duty to the brown-eyed beauty at his side.

After the concert, he hoped they could leave without too much fuss. He'd recognized a few faces from his past as made their way up to more prestigious seats. Suddenly, he felt a pair of hands clap his shoulders before he could rise.

"Edward Masen, the darling of the CSO. Whatever are you doing here?"

While Frank Capra's wasn't necessarily a famous face, his name was known for the movies he directed. Still, Edward and Izzy both recognized him. His daughter Lucy, splendidly arrayed in pink ruffles, bounced on her toes.

"Mr. Masen, I have your recording of lullabies. I love them." The little girl's eyes shone, and the Captain was at a loss for words. He'd made that recording years before. He was astonished that anyone still had a copy.

"Thank you, miss and than you, sir. I'm glad you and your daughter enjoyed my playing."

"Thank you for your service, son. Do you still just play, or are you composing at all?"

"I hadn't considered it yet, but that might suit me more these days." He was a bit shocked by the entire exchange but vowed to keep his options open. He watched as Izzy took the card proffered by the gentleman and thanked _Mister Capra_ for remembering the Captain.

"Well, that's a ringing endorsement if ever I heard one. Come on Captain, you can help me write my review and I can spot you a beer."

A few moments later they had returned to the lounge. The bar didn't boast any live entertainment that evening, so the place was pretty quiet and deserted, but it was a Thursday, after all. As they slid into a booth, Edward was struck by the fear of discovery. Alice had been too enamored of the Major to notice much about him when they'd eaten. He wasn't sure if she suspected anything. Keeping Izzy in the dark didn't seem fair, but he had no idea how to broach the subject of his current condition.

In the end, it didn't matter. Izzy had excused herself to the powder room and as soon as she came back and sat down, she pulled out her notebook and a pencil.

" A okay, Captain, give me your best, and I'll shape it up, so Weinstock, my editor, will believe I was here. I know our photographer got a nice shot of Miss Eighty-Eight Keys of 1946, so...dazzle me."

For the next twenty-five minutes, Edward lost himself in describing what he felt had been the high points and the technical issues of the recital. He sipped on his beer from time to time as Izzy wrote out her notes, chewing on the pencil occasionally and barely looking at him at all.

At some point, he placed both of his mitts on the tabletop.

With a flourish, Izzy looked up and smiled. "It sounds good, Captain. Really good. I owe you..." Her voice trailed off as she noticed his hands resting around his nearly empty mug.

Edward felt the silence and the heavy look of her eyes. For the first time, he did not feel pitied. Only curiosity framed her face. "Change of key for me," he stated a little flatly as he grasped the handle of the mug and then drained the last of his beer.

_Now she sees what I have left, what I can't do anymore. _His heart felt heavy as he not only felt the loss of his music, but maybe a little more of the loss of himself. He'd been the suave player, the ears in every room, every salon he'd wormed his way into over the past few years. Now when he ached for the release and solace that music and playing had always afforded him, he was mocked by the reality of the new pianists taking his place.

"What happened?" Izzy asked with simple curiosity. Her voice was free of pity or guile. She was gathering facts. Placing a hand close to his own on the tablecloth, her gaze never wavered as she waited for him to speak.

The Captain hadn't really revisited the event since debriefing in England. He drew in a sharp breath and felt compelled by those trusting, brown eyes to answer.

"I always pushed my limits. My parents were killed in London in the Blitz. They were there for me, to give me a home base while I toured the Continent. I was recruited for my special skills. I was handsome, and I could play. I got in where others could not. I'd learned a few languages growing up, German and Italian...I did whatever I needed to. I got the information. The night of the accident, I had pushed my timeline to the limit, and my friend, my pilot Major Whitlock - well he's a crazy Texan - and he waited for me, knowing we'd be going into the soup to get back to our base. We picked up some anti-aircraft action and then we crash-landed. I got out. Most of the crew did, too, but the door was stuck. The Major..." He paused and was pleased that a new mug had appeared in front of him. He took a long drink before continuing.

"I didn't care about the flames. I ran right back up to the cockpit hatch and pulled and scraped until it gave way enough to get him out. He'd made my escape possible, and I wasn't willing for him to pay with his life. As I was pulling him out, something blew, and we got a good singeing. The damage was done to my hands. The medics didn't know I was a pianist. My hands were placed in what is called form of function - mittens? See?" He raised his hands so she could see the fused fingers. At least he could move his thumbs for her. "The Major had damage to his legs and shrapnel wounds, lacerations all over his body, even his eyes."

Izzy covered his rough hands with her own, sliding around the padded circle to rest next to him.

"I know something you don't need hands for." Her eyes searched his, and he saw his answer, his permission right there. She bit her bottom lip; the cocky, sure reporter had vanished, and in her place was a girl just hoping. She started to turn her head away when Edward realized all that she meant.

She hadn't been the girl to give her kisses to the boys headed out. But she was the girl here, waiting and wanting to be kissed by someone, to welcome someone home. He raised his hand to her cheek. He felt the warmth of her blush, and she did not pull away from the odd angles of his fingers; rather, she leaned in a bit.

A kiss needs lips. Lips and hopes and dreams that meet. Hers were warm and soft on his, and he peppered her lips and cheeks and chin with feather-light touches and brushes till neither could stand the wait, and their lips parted. The girl in her blushed as the woman she'd been hiding inside came out to meet the man who thought he'd left the best part of him on an airplane hatch and wasted his kisses on ladies who couldn't care less. Those had been pecks, nothing more.

Isabella cuddled into his chest; Edward circled his arms around her shoulders. She placed her hands on either side of his face and brought it close to hers again. Those lips were just the start of a beautiful song in her heart.

.

In the summer of 1946, Alice had her journey west at last. Isabella,"Izzy," caught up with her, and they found the women they longed to be. Two soldiers aided their journey, learning they could do more than spy and fly. One changed his key and found a way to make music something more for others. One lost his wings but helped many more to fly faster and farther than ever before.


End file.
